


Silk Makes the Difference

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Misunderstanding, Season 4 Spoilers, mention of Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel could not remember having considered the possibilities of Dean in heavy black silk before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Museum

‘Cas. Wake up.’

Castiel sighs. ‘I am not asleep, Dean.’

‘Whatever.’ There is a rustling noise. ‘Time to go, buddy.’

Castiel frowns and opens his eyes. ‘What? Where are--’ He turns towards Dean’s voice, shifting position on the bed, and loses track of the end of his sentence.

Dean is standing by the foot of the second bed in the motel room, a zipped garment bag in one hand, eyebrows raised, looking at Castiel. ‘Y’okay, Cas?’

‘You have...changed your clothes.’ Castiel resists the urge to clear his throat.

When he sat down an hour or so before, drifting into the deep meditative state he found so peaceful, Dean had been wearing his usual clothes: t-shirt, jeans, a heavy overshirt, workboots.

Clearly Castiel had missed some cue about events for the evening because a black silk button-down had replaced the t-shirt, and tailored black trousers the jeans.

He could not remember having considered the possibilities of Dean in heavy black silk before.

The smooth, faintly gleaming fabric lies smooth over Dean’s shoulders and chest, hinting at the muscles and bones below. The tailored trousers are snug over hips and thighs and Castiel finds himself fascinated by the possibilities inherent in simple black cloth.

‘Hey!’ Dean shakes the garment bag at him with a harsh rattling noise and Castiel jerks back to the present moment, guiltily aware that he has been staring. ‘You sure you’re awake?’

‘Yes. Of course. What do you want?’

‘You’re comin’ with me tonight. Remember? The museum?’

‘But Sam--’ Castiel glances at the other bed and realises the problem immediately: Sam is asleep and snoring, a pillow pulled over his head.

Dean shakes his head. ‘He’s been watching that place practically ‘round the clock for the last two days.’

‘Dean, I am not sure about this. I... tend to make other people uncomfortable.’ Castiel stands up. He feels the protest is legitimate and he also doubts that anyone will notice him if he is standing beside Dean while Dean is wearing black silk. Changing his clothes seems irrelevant.

‘No-one’ll know who we are anyway. And it’s not like we need to ask a lot of questions.’ Dean thrusts the garment bag at him. ‘But they’ll definitely notice if we show up in jeans. I asked around: apparently tonight’s the big night around here.’

Castiel takes the bag and unzips it a few inches. Black and white stare out at him and he looks up at Dean. ‘What is this?’

‘A tux. Go on -- get changed.’ Dean waves at the bathroom door.

‘Where did you get this?’ Castiel pulls the garment bag away, drops it on the bed, and looks in puzzlement at the black and white suit before him.

Dean rolls his eyes. ‘It’s a rental, okay? Be nice to it.’ He waits for a minute then, impatiently: ‘Are you gonna stand there all night and stare at it or what?’

* * *

Castiel looks at himself in the mirror uncertainly. He had taken a quick shower and borrowed Dean’s razor to shave, but he is still unsure that this tuxedo was either entirely necessary or a good idea.

‘Hey, you alive in there?’ Dean raps on the door.

‘Yes.’ He fiddles with the tie again but he has already managed to tie his fingers into the knot three times. Fortunately the only truly new additions were the vest, which he rather likes and which presented no problems, and the tie itself.

He has to admit, the whole thing fits well and is more comfortable than the suit he has worn for the past year. How Dean got the size correct he has no idea.

‘Well, c’mon, then--’ Dean’s voice fades as Castiel opens the door, snapping the bathroom light off and stepping out into the bedroom.

‘Will this make us unnoticeable, do you think?’ Castiel stands, awaiting Dean’s nod of approval.

‘Uh...’ Dean blinks several times and runs a hand over his hair, ruffling a few strands out of place. ‘Yeah, yeah...that’s...fine. I think...yeah.’

‘I could not make this work.’ Castiel flicks at the length of tie around his neck and Dean scowls at it momentarily.

‘Shit. I can’t do up one of those things to save my life. Wait...here.’ Dean steps closer to him, close enough that Castiel could simply lift a hand and rest on his shoulder -- or his cheek.

Dean pulls the tie loose, tossing it down on the bed. Then his warm fingers are undoing the top buttons of Castiel’s shirt and the angel has to fight the abrupt desire to close his eyes and lean into Dean’s hands. Dean’s fingertips brush against Castiel’s collarbone and Castiel swallows hard, taking an inadvertently deep breath -- Dean has showered, too; he can smell shampoo and something that reminds him of chocolate and some kind of wood. Underneath that is the scent from Dean’s skin -- and Castiel knows that scent too well for his own comfort.

‘There.’ Dean takes a half-step back and surveys his work with apparent satisfaction.

Castiel touches his collar, finds that Dean has undone the top two buttons of his shirt, leaving the white fronts a little open above the dark waistcoat. ‘Will that do?’

Dean does not answer for a second, then he shakes his head sharply and turns away. ‘Yeah -- yeah, that’ll do fine.’

Castiel shrugs and follows him, pushing away a feeling of obscure disappointment.

It is ridiculous to be disappointed when he does not even know what it is that he failed to get.

* * *

The museum is a large, faux Gothic building on the edge of town. As they approach on foot, having parked the Impala about a block away, the building is blazing with light -- all but the very bottom floor and the basement which are noticeable by their darkness.

‘Did you and Sam ascertain where the figurine is likely to be?’ Castiel asks quietly. The sidewalk is not crowded but there is a steady flow of foot traffic towards the lit building. He doubts any of the passers-by would understand if they talked about the job in explicit detail for the rest of their walk -- but it is always possible.

Dean has been walking in silence, hands deep in his jacket pockets, and he does not respond. The leather jacket had been left behind as too warm and Castiel finds he has to resist the urge to reach over and adjust the silk shirt against the collar of Dean’s lighter cloth jacket. The silk brushes against the military-style coat, making a continual rustling noise that Castiel finds distracting. It pulls his thoughts continually towards what the shirt covers: the outlines of Dean’s breast and ribs he had seen back in the motel as the younger man moved.

‘Dean?’ Castiel looks over at him and Dean glances up at the same moment. There is a strange, pre-occupied expression on Dean’s face for a second then it clears.

‘Huh? Oh -- oh, yeah -- it’s -- down in the cellar somewhere.’ Dean pulls the EMP from a pocket and switches it on briefly. It chirps, shows a brief flash of light, then goes silent. He shrugs and pockets it again. ‘I’ve got a flashlight. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.’

‘Ah.’

They join a small crowd of people heading up the broad stone steps through the open double doors. A man at the door, dressed much as Castiel is, smiles and offers them a large glass fishbowl. Castiel blinks at him, but Dean pulls him to one side and fishes a couple of crumpled twenty dollar bills out of his pocket.

‘Thank you, sir -- sirs,’ the man amends with a charming smile to both of them which he then transfers with the ease of the practiced fundraiser to the woman behind them.

‘No problem.’ Dean grabs Castiel’s elbow and steers him through the crowd inside the door and into the first large room on the right.

* * *

There is a coat rack where Dean leaves his jacket just inside the door. The walls of the large, open room are lined with display cases; free-standing cases are scattered about the room. People are milling about and a string trio is at the far end of the room, their backs to tall, narrow windows, playing something Castiel does not recognize.

‘Try not to look _too_ much like an alien, okay?’ Dean hisses in Castiel’s ear and the angel has to try hard not to shudder from the warm breath against his skin. Dean’s hand, too, is a hot pressure against his arm and he wants to reach over and touch Dean’s fingers.

‘I will do my best, Dean.’ Castiel clears his throat and looks about the room, trying to imitate what those around him are doing. Dean’s hand does not disappear from his arm, either, which does not make concentrating on appearing human any simpler.

He is not quite sure when Dean’s physical presence had started to become a distraction for him. He suspects that if he tried to trace the problem back to its true beginning, he might find himself back in the barn with sigils surrounding him and Dean staring at him in shock.

He knows that this happens to humans and that they have language to describe it -- but he does not and the faint deep thrumming in his body every time Dean touches him or, on some days, speaks to him is a continual confusion. Lately, though, he has been more sure of what it might mean -- but it does not make him any happier.

And if he thinks about it now, he is going to end up staring at Dean all evening and he is sure that would not make him blend into the crowd. Although -- as he glances around, he can see more than one woman casting an appreciative glance at the man by his side. If he is not mistaken, there are a few men to be counted in that number and he wonders what Dean would make of that. As far as he knows, Dean would make nothing at all of it and that thought makes a small cold space in his chest.

‘C’mon -- the door we want’s down there.’ Dean nudges him towards the far end of the room, past two of the free-standing cases. ‘Make like you care about the cases.’

Castiel obediently turns to examine the objects in the case nearest to him although he can make little of them. The provenance of the arrowheads seems dubious to him and the explanatory plaques do more to obscure the difficulty rather than make it clear.

The string trio pauses, then starts up a new tune and Castiel looks up to see couples taking to the empty space in the middle of the room. He watches, fascinated, as they begin to revolve in smooth time to the music.

Dancing is not unfamiliar to him, but it has been centuries since he took part and the music was substantially different then. Not to mention the habits of dancers: now they cling together so tightly he thinks it must become uncomfortable. How can they move with any ease?

‘Excuse me --’ He and Dean turn towards the woman’s voice at the same minute and she smiles at them. ‘--may I?’ She is holding out her hand to Dean.

‘Oh...uh...’ Dean casts a slightly desperate look at Castiel who shrugs -- what else does Dean expect him to do? ‘Sure. Why not.’

The woman’s smile broadens and she slips her fingers into Dean’s palm and allows him to spin her into the dance.

Castiel watches for a moment or two. Dean is surprisingly apt at this form of dancing -- but Castiel thinks that, given how well Dean knows how his body moves through space, he probably would be good at dancing regardless of the style.

The woman is chatting -- he can see her lips, a shiny rose color, moving, although he cannot hear what she is saying -- and, when they turn in time to the music, he can see Dean lean closer to her and say something. Although they are closer to the trio -- and therefore the music must be louder -- he is not sure that is why Dean is leaning in.

The woman is quite lovely, he can admit that dispassionately. She is about Dean’s height, perhaps a shade shorter, and has clearly chosen her dress with an eye to its effect on the viewer rather than her own comfort. Castiel would not be surprised if she had picked Dean out of the crowd quite quickly: young, attractive, likely to respond readily to what she so obviously wants.

Castiel grits his teeth, willing himself to stop thinking what he is thinking. It is none of his business what or who Dean-- As long as it does not interfere with a hunt or kill him, Dean can do as he wishes.

And Castiel heartily wishes he could make himself believe any of that.

Perhaps if he had chosen a female vessel...?

The room is getting warmer as more people crowd in. Dean’s information was apparently correct: this _is_ the big night in this town. Conversations swirl around him and people brush past him and leave him feeling slightly bewildered; there are so many words said in voices that seem to indicate the exact opposite of the words. How are people supposed to tell what is genuinely meant?

Castiel shifts, feeling slightly obvious standing by the edge of the dance floor, and begins to make his way past the glass cases towards the door Dean had nodded to earlier.

As he slides his way past the dance floor, miming interest in the various cases -- one of them contains a display of genuinely beautiful ceramics, teapots brought back by sailors when this was a more thriving port town -- he keeps an eye on the dance floor, tracking where Dean is.

Dean is still circling with the lovely woman, a redhead, Castiel notes, but his eyes flick over to Castiel every now and then.

Castiel inclines his head slightly towards the door and Dean nods, then rolls his eyes, gesturing with his fingertips behind the woman’s back to indicate something, although Castiel cannot translate the gesture. He nods, which seems the best plan, and continues to edge past the cases.

The music ends, the couples separate and clap. Castiel pauses where he is and watches Dean separate from his partner, watches her watch him as he walks away, and sighs silently.

He can always complete this job himself if he has to. The hum of the thing in the cellar is strong enough that he needs neither Dean nor the EMP.

‘Sorry ‘bout that,’ Dean says, a little breathless after ducking his way through the crowd. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his throat and he undoes the cuff buttons of the silk shirt, doubling up the sleeves quickly.

Castiel shakes his head, forcing his eyes back to Dean’s face rather than watching the reveal of muscled forearms and the play of Dean's fingers in the folds of silk. ‘The exhibits are quite interesting.’

‘Damn, you lie well for an angel.’ Dean shoves up his left sleeve, glancing over at the door. ‘So -- ready to go?’

Castiel inclines his head. ‘If you...ah, your admirer is back.’ He nods over Dean’s shoulder as the redhead approaches.

Dean grumbles something under his breath and rolls his eyes again but, as he turns around, Castiel notes he is putting on one of his more charming smiles.

‘I thought...perhaps...’ The woman tilts her head, smiles.

‘Uh...yeah, well...’ Dean fumbles behind his back and, with a shock of pure surprise, Castiel feels Dean’s fingers slide between his. ‘This one’s...kinda promised.’

The woman’s eyes dart between them for a moment and, almost faster than Castiel can follow, her expression freezes. Then it thaws and she laughs, nods, and steps aside, bowing with surprising grace to indicate their way out into the dance.

The music has started again and Dean steps forward, tugging Castiel after him. ‘C’mon, c’mon...’

‘Dean -- I --’ Castiel hangs back slightly, still not sure what is happening and slightly lost in the feeling of Dean’s hand against his.

Dean glances back at him. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t find a beat.’

‘Of course I--’

‘Then stop bitching.’ Dean tugs and Castiel stumbles forward and finds himself with Dean’s arm wrapped around his waist and Dean’s hand still firmly wound around his.

He thinks his heart might stop because suddenly, in the two seconds it took for Dean to pull him closer, he understands what is going on and he understands what will never happen.

The silk of Dean’s shirt rustles against his tuxedo jacket and he hears Dean mutter something and then he is fumbling between their bodies and Castiel feels the buttons on his jacket release. ‘What are you doing?’ He keeps following Dean through the steps of the simple waltz automatically.

‘Not getting stabbed to death, d’you mind?’ Dean shakes his head and looks back up, recapturing Castiel’s hand.

‘No.’ Castiel cannot say he _minds_ any of this. He can hear the beat of blood in his ears and all the nerves in his arm are currently concentrated on the feeling of Dean’s rough palm and long fingers against his. If he thinks about it, he swears he could delineate each and every callus on Dean’s skin and--

‘Hey, Cas! Don’t black out on me now, man; we’ve still got a job to do.’ Dean is whispering into his ear again and this time Castiel cannot repress the shudder. ‘You okay?’

‘I am...fine, Dean, but perhaps we could move towards the door?’

Dean chuckles. ‘We _are_ moving towards the door.’ He jerks his chin over Castiel’s shoulder. ‘Look.’

Castiel glances back, sees that they are at the far side of the dance space, but circling towards the trio and then the basement door. ‘Ah.’

‘Not as dumb as I look, am I.’ Dean is grinning at him when he turns back and Castiel feels his heart turn over.

‘I have never said you were--’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah...’ Dean shakes his head at him. ‘Forget it. Bad joke. I forget you don’t do jokes.’

 _But you do. You tease constantly and why did I not realise what that did to me until just now?_ Castiel feels Dean settle back into the rhythm of the dance. He can feel the warmth of Dean pressed along his chest, the slickness of the silk highlighting the curve of muscle along Dean’s body and--

Dean clears his throat, moves as if to speak -- then says nothing. When Castiel quirks an eyebrow at him, Dean says, ‘Song’s nearly done. Get ready to step out.’

Castiel nods, willing his hands not to tighten around Dean’s fingers or on his hip. Nothing must give him away -- if the Winchesters choose to send him away, there is nothing he can do but go -- and he has a sudden need _not_ to be sent away.

Dean might not notice the men in the room looking at him but that is no reason Castiel could not look. If Dean does not notice, so much the better.

The music ends in a flurry of grace notes and applause and Dean’s hand is at the small of Castiel’s back, ushering him off the floor and, incidentally, straight to the basement door while the rest of the crowd was distracted by the end of the dance.

Castiel reaches out and touches the doorknob. The lock obligingly clicks and the door springs open an inch.

‘Go...go.’ Dean’s voice is close to his ear and they slip through the door quickly.

* * *

The door leads to a narrow, dark staircase and Castiel feels his way down, one hand on the wall at his side, Dean close behind him. At the bottom the staircase debouches into a hallway: left to right.

‘Which way?’

He feels Dean fumble in his pocket and hears the click of the EMP going on. ‘Left. Wait a minute...here.’ A narrow beam of light illuminates the dusty, stone-flagged hallway.

Castiel turns left. The dust in the hallway tickles his nose; he can feel the faint buzz of the spelled item; and Dean’s presence behind him is turning from the pleasant to...something else. He almost feels irritated. The simultaneous realisation of what he wants and how unlikely it is he will ever have it is like having sandpaper rub against his skin.

‘Here -- here.’ Dean grabs his elbow and, before he can think, Castiel pulls free.

‘I know.’ Castiel turns and touches a cold brass doorknob. The door springs open---

* * *

‘Cas -- Cas!’

Castiel opens his eyes.

Dean is leaning over him, the harsh beam of the flashlight setting him out in stark contrast to the darkness of the room behind him. ‘Cas, are you okay?’

Castiel takes quick stock: all his limbs are intact; he feels no blood, no pain, no wound. ‘I am...fine. What happened?’

Dean sits back on his heels. ‘That damn thing knocked you cold. Seems it was spelled to go off when the door opened.’

‘It only affected me?’

‘Yeah -- sorry, Cas, I wouldn’t’ve let you--’

‘It does not matter.’ Castiel pushes himself up to sitting. ‘Did you destroy the thing?’

Dean sits back on one hip and gestures to a pile of rubble at the base of a small pedestal table.

‘What was it?’

Dean shrugs. ‘Little statue of an angel.’ He presses his palms together and bows his head for a moment, then looks up at Castiel. ‘Standing like that. Ring any bells?’

Castiel shakes his head. It does, but it would do Dean no good to know that. If it is broken, then it can do no further harm and the vampire who controlled it is clearly long gone. The dust in the hallway alone proves that; no-one has been down here for months if not longer and a vampire would need to eat more regularly than that, even if this was not its only means of supply.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ Dean sits back on his heels, hands on his knees. ‘You looked weird upstairs.’

‘I am...tired.’

‘Dude, you’re _never_ tired.’

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. Dean’s doggedness after an answer is sometimes endearing but right now he wishes Dean would stop. ‘Pretending to be this human is wearing.’

‘I’m sorry, Cas.’ Dean reaches out and touches his shoulder, flattens his palm against the curve of Castiel’s bicep. Castiel stares down at his hand, noticing the scatter of light hair on Dean’s wrist, the leather thong bracelet he almost never takes off. ‘I didn’t...I...y’know I don’t care, right?’

‘What?’ Castiel looks up at him.

‘The being human thing. You know I don’t give a shit.’

‘About...what?’

Dean gives a disgusted huff. ‘If other people think you’re...think you’re fuckin’ weird or not. Jesus, Cas, _I_ think you’re weird!’

‘All right...’ Castiel says cautiously. He can hear the meaning behind Dean’s words but he does not know what it is.

‘But that’s not the point. I mean -- you know -- you do know I don’t _care_ that you’re weird?’

‘I know you find my...weirdness useful,’ Castiel says after a minute. This conversation feels strange and Dean will not stop looking at him. Even in the over-brightness of the flashlight, his expression is uniquely unreadable.

Dean groans and sinks back on the cold, rough stone floor. ‘That’s not what I mean.’

Castiel takes a minute to admire the sheen the flashlight gives to the black silk. In this light, the silk almost looks as though it has a silvery overlay, as though Dean is faintly luminescent.

‘Should we be sitting here?’ he asks after a minute. The shards of the statue might have some residual charge, after all, and there is the question of getting out of the basement.

‘I guess not.’ Dean sounds strangely quiet.

‘Is something wrong, Dean?’

‘Nope.’ Dean shoves himself abruptly to his feet and holds out a hand.

Castiel hesitates for a minute, then pushes himself to his feet without Dean’s assistance, dusting himself off as best he can in the flashlight beam.

‘You are pretty weird, Cas, you know that.’

‘I am aware of it, yes.’

‘’Cause most people would have figured out this was a fucking set-up,’ Dean says conversationally as he turns and flashes the light over the statue fragments as Castiel freezes with his hands on his knees.

‘A set-up? You mean a trap?’ Perhaps there is another statue -- or Dean has seen something Castiel had missed? He begins to look around the cellar, squinting in the darkness.

‘No, I mean that you could have dealt with this all by your sweet lonesome probably ten times as fast as the two of us and I know it.’

Castiel is completely unable to catch up with this conversation. There is a tone in Dean’s voice he is sure anyone else -- any _human_ \-- would be able to read.

The woman upstairs, for example, would probably understand it precisely.

Dean shakes his head and the flashlight beam wobbles slightly. ‘Am I wrong, Cas?’

‘No.’ But if that is true and Dean knew it... Dean is not normally one to waste time on a hunt.

‘I even dug out this fucking _shirt_ because I thought -- Jesus, and I dropped fifty bucks on a rental for you...’ Dean spins around suddenly, the flashlight catching Castiel squarely in the face.

He winces and puts up a hand to shield his eyes. ‘That shirt does not look old.’

‘Okay, _fine,_ I _bought_ the fucking thing! Happy now?’ Dean throws up his hands and loses his grip on the flashlight. It sails through the air and lands against the far wall, the light nearly wholly muffled in dust and debris. ‘Great. Just...fucking...great.’

Castiel waits as Dean, still muttering to himself, goes to retrieve the flashlight.

Perhaps Dean is unhappy about having to leave the event upstairs? After all, there was whatever the woman had been whispering in his ear... Castiel sighs silently to himself. After all, he can find his way back to the motel alone -- there is not even a pressing need for him to return this evening--

‘Ow!’

‘Dean?’

‘Fine, I’m fine, I just...there was something sharp in the dust, that’s all. _Ow,’_ Dean adds with feeling and the beam bobs as he turns back towards Castiel.

‘Dean, be careful -- do not--’

‘Whoa!’

There is a sudden sharp cracking noise and a plume of dust in the center of the room.

‘Dean!’ Castiel launches himself forward, thrusting his hands into the coalescing vampire as it spins up out of the cloud of dust left by the broken statue.

The thing starts to materialize, cold and solid around his hands, but he mumbles quick words under his breath and the spirit of the thing shrieks and quails and flees.

It is not the best he could do, but it is gone.

Dean is on his back on the floor beyond where the thickening cloud had been and Castiel skids onto his knees before he can remember that the trousers must be returned to someone else. ‘Dean? Dean!’

Dean shakes his head, coughs dust into the palm of his hand, and blinks up at Castiel. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘You did not know what was here before you came!’

Dean shakes his head again. ‘We just knew there was something making the occasional security guy disappear.’

‘Dean! You could have been killed!’

Dean’s expression hardens and he starts pushing himself up, groping for the flashlight. ‘Yeah, and that would put a big ol’ cramp in your plans for Lucifer, I _know._ Sue me for trying to do my job in the here and--’

Castiel growls at him and grabs two handfuls of black silk, yanking Dean up. ‘That is _not_ what I mean!’

‘Uh--okay--’ Dean is staring at him from a few inches away, green eyes wide and startled. ‘I...I kinda guessed I got somethin’ wrong.’

‘You can _not_ be this careless with your life!’

‘Cas, I’ve been careless with my life since I was twelve--’

‘I _know!’_

‘Then why do you think I’m gonna stop now?’

Castiel knots his fingers in the silk, aware that his knuckles are brushing through the fabric against the muscle of Dean’s breast and he can feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing, just looks up at Castiel. A moment of silence passes, then another, then another.

‘I want...I...I want...’ Castiel wrings the silk and stares at Dean who stares back, green eyes bright.

‘What, Cas?’

Castiel can feel Dean’s heartbeat through his breastbone and he closes his eyes tightly. He feels Dean shift position but it comes as a surprise when he feels the man’s fingers brush against his cheek.

‘Jesus, Cas, why do you make everything harder than it has to be?’

‘What?’ Castiel opens his eyes to find Dean a heart-stoppingly short distance away.

Dean shakes his head and leans forward, pressing his lips to Castiel’s. The kiss tastes of dust and stone and old coffee and Castiel moans against Dean’s mouth. It is so _obvious_ in hindsight. How had he not known _this_ was what he wanted?

His hands flatten against Dean’s chest, then scrabble at the silk again, struggling to find purchase on the smoothness. As soon as Dean breaks away, Castiel gasps for breath and tries to resist the urge to lean directly forward and find Dean’s mouth again.

Dean’s mouth, which is busy grinning at him.

‘What is so funny?’

Dean shakes his head, shrugs, grins at him. ‘I don’t think anyone else has tried to lecture me on the dangers of my job before making out with me before.’

Castiel swallows and tries to pull himself back together even though he feels his inability to remove his hands from the silk shirt are probably a give-away. ‘You do not take the dangers seriously enough--’

Dean groans and drops his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder. ‘I was happier when we were kissing.’


	2. The Basement

Castiel stays where he is, blood hammering in his ears, unable to think fast enough to catch up with what is happening. Dean’s hands are on his hips, anchoring him in place, and Dean seems to have no inclination to move. Despite the hardness of the stone under his knees, Castiel could not honestly say he desires to move very much either. ‘Dean.’

Dean pulls back far enough that he can look at Castiel.

‘The woman upstairs...’

Dean groans again and rubs a hand over his face. ‘No-one told me this was fucking pick-up central!’

‘She propositioned you.’

‘Hell, yeah, she did.’ Dean drops his hand on Castiel’s knee and looks at him again, the flashlight beam washing out the details of his face and making him look pale and mask-like, his eyes bright.

Castiel hesitates. ‘But you...’ _kissed me_ ‘...do you not...’ _want to find her again?_ ‘I did not think...’ _you wanted this from me._

Dean is silent for a long minute and Castiel can see him chewing on his lower lip. He sits back on his heels, waiting. Dean’s left hand is still on his hip, a hot spot through the layers of the jacket, vest, and shirt.

‘Look...Cas...I...’ Dean stops, sighs, rubs his hand through his hair, and Castiel feels the chill of the stone begin to travel upwards through him.

‘I understand, Dean.’ And he does -- or, at least, he will. It may take some time but-- He begins to shift, moving to stand up, meaning to return upstairs as quickly as possible.

‘No.’ Dean grabs his arm, holds him in place. ‘Y’don’t, Cas.’

Castiel stays where he is, caught by the expression in Dean’s eyes: half-desperate, half-hopeful.

‘Look, I don’t...you’re right. I...haven’t done this...’ Dean closes his eyes, scowling, eyebrows drawn tight together. He speaks with his eyes still shut, each word careful: ‘I don’t really know what I’m doin’, okay?’

‘But you...’ Castiel can think of no way to ask the question.

‘I just...I...’ Dean’s jaw tightens, then he opens his eyes and speaks so quickly Castiel has no chance to break in: ‘Remember that little town in Iowa about a month ago -- that rusalka we were tracking down. You and I got there first and Sammy showed up about a week after?’

Castiel nods.

‘And we spent half our damned time wading around that river trying to track the thing down and you and I spent so long wandering around that town--’ Dean closes his eyes again and shakes his head hard. ‘I dreamed about you every night, Cas. Every...’ He opens his eyes again and looks up at the angel. ‘And I thought it was just...y’know...Hell and...I don’t know, something to do with that but -- I’d wake up and you were there and...it didn’t matter if it was the middle of the night or first thing in the morning or--’

Castiel tries to break in, tries to reassure Dean that he will be there regardless as he has always been, but Dean goes on without seeming to notice.

‘And I was waitin’ for you outside that bookstore -- and you came out and told me about this book you’d found about -- hell, I don’t know what but --’ Dean shakes his head hard. ‘I went back and _bought_ the damned thing, Cas! It’s sitting in the fucking trunk because I couldn’t figure out a way to give it to you without...I just...I wanted...’

Dean looks up at him, almost hopelessly, expression unguarded and open for the first time since he rustled the garment bag in the motel room and Castiel’s heartbeat is painful in his throat.

‘I wanted to give you a fucking _book_ because...I knew it’d make you happy -- I thought, Christ, he’ll grin if I get him that and--you _never_ fucking smile and--’ Dean is worrying at his lower lip again and even in the flashlight beam, Castiel can see the slow flush creeping up Dean’s throat.

‘And then I thought, if I give him the book, maybe--’ Dean looks up at him again, eyes suddenly sharp. ‘--I thought maybe you’d give me a fuckin’ _hug._ And don’t think _that_ didn’t freak me right the hell out. Standing there in the middle of that bookshop -- the guy behind the register thought I was gonna pass out.’ He shakes his head. ‘And I threw the book in the trunk and tried like hell not to think about it but it was like once I thought of it I couldn’t stop and...Jesus, I had weird dreams...’

Castiel reaches out and brushes his fingers over Dean’s cheek, feeling the warmth of skin and the warmth of the blush. ‘I could not stop either, Dean.’

Dean looks up at him again, eyebrows drawn together, half-frowning. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, Cas.’ He tries to smile. ‘And you know how much I love sayin’ that.’

Castiel nods. ‘Neither do I.’

‘I’m...I can’t...’ Dean raises his hands and lets them fall back on his knees. ‘I mean, I never...’

‘I would very much like to kiss you again, Dean,’ Castiel says soberly, leaning forward. ‘May I?’

Dean’s eyes go wide, but he nods and leans forward, meeting Castiel more than half-way.


	3. The Car

Dean clears his throat, angles the flashlight down. ‘So...uh. Yeah.’

‘Dean.’

‘'Yeah, Cas.’

‘I...would like to leave this place now. With you.’ Castiel finds words more difficult than usual.

His body and his mind seem to be working against each other. His mind wants to elucidate, spell out exactly what is going on here: what he thinks, what he feels, what Dean thinks, what Dean feels. And his body is twitchy, eager for...something. ‘Would...would that be acceptable?’

Dean is silent for a minute and Castiel begins to frown. There is something he has missed. Some nuance, some--

‘Oh, _hell,_ yeah, that's acceptable.’ The words are heartfelt and accompany Dean scrambling to his feet and catching Castiel's hand, dragging the angel up, too. Castiel stumbles slightly as he gets up and Dean steadies him -- and leaves his hand on Castiel’s arm.

Hesitantly, Castiel reaches over and touches the back of Dean’s hand, tracing the lines of his fingers, feeling the difference between skin and the smooth cloth of his sleeve. He hears Dean mumble something. ‘What?’

‘Nothin’. Never mind. C’mon.’ Dean tugs him forward, flashing the light at the doorway, the remains of the statue crunching under their feet.

* * *

Back upstairs, Castiel sees the redhead circling with a taller, dark-haired man. Her eyes find Dean as they make their way across the room. This time, Castiel feels no particular compunction about slipping his arm under Dean’s and around his back, tucking his fingers under Dean’s elbow. He meets the woman’s eyes directly, making no attempt to disguise his expression.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Dean mutters under his breath, not trying to get away, but not leaning into him either.

Castiel hesitates. ‘I...do not want that woman to approach you again.’

‘Huh?’ Dean follows the direction of his glance and laughs, relaxing. ‘Don’t worry about it, Cas. Looks like she’s found what she wanted.’

* * *

Dean is still shrugging into his jacket as they make their way down the stairs, stuffing the flashlight in an inside pocket.

Castiel follows him, wondering what the human follow-up to the conversation in the cellar is. He can feel the tingle from Dean’s mouth pressed against his and he had not been lying: that was something he wanted to repeat -- as many times as possible if that would interest Dean, but he has no idea how to go forward from here.

If he understands the colloquial phrase correctly, the moment seems to have passed.

They pause on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps, Dean settling his jacket on his shoulders, not looking back at Castiel who stops on the bottom step.

There is a streetlight a few yards away at the corner of the street where it makes a sharp left. Dean coughs, clears his throat, needlessly smooths the fronts of his jacket, moves as if to speak -- but does not.

Castiel steps down onto the street and considers reaching for Dean’s hand again.

‘So...uh...’ Dean coughs again and rubs at the back of his neck, glancing up at Castiel and then away, as if the stretch of dark street back towards the Impala has suddenly acquired a new level of fascination.

Castiel wishes he knew the right thing to say.

Dean hesitates for another minute, then reaches out and touches the tuxedo sleeve, slipping his fingers downward until they tangle with Castiel’s. ‘Did...did you have something in mind?’

‘Oh fuck that!’ He says almost immediately, as if in response to himself, and Castiel blinks, unsure if his input is called for or not. ‘We’re not in fucking high school, right?’

‘No.’ Castiel shakes his head. That, at least, he is sure of.

‘C’mon, then.’ Dean tugs Castiel forward and the angel follows silently.

* * *

They walk back down to the car without speaking, but Castiel feels satisfied -- for the minute, at least -- with the warm pressure of Dean’s hand.

He experiments with tracing his thumb over Dean’s knuckles, feeling the rougher skin on the back of the younger man’s hand, the half-healed cut from a road-side oil-change on the Impala a few days before. He presses the pad of his thumb against the soft places between Dean’s knuckles and feels Dean’s fingers tighten slightly around his.

‘Jesus, you don’t fuck around, do you?’ Dean mutters.

‘What?’ Castiel blinks at him.

In response, Dean begins exploring with his own fingertips, pushing up under the cuff of Castiel’s shirt. His fingers find the sensitive skin below Castiel’s palm and stroke over the tendons of his wrist. The sensations from Dean’s fingers radiate up Castiel’s arm, tingling through his throat and making his mouth dry.

He fails to notice as they reach the edge of the parking lot where they left the Impala and stumbles slightly over the edge of the curb of the parking place.

Dean catches his arms and half-steadies, half-turns him so Castiel ends up with his back to the cool, slightly damp panels of the car. Dean is directly in front of him, looking at him intently, a slight frown pulling his eyebrows together. ‘So neither of us know what we’re doing here, do we.’

Castiel shakes his head.

Dean bites on the corner of his lower lip, an action Castiel never thought he would find fascinating.

‘So...I...I don’t want...’ Dean’s frown deepens and he looks down at where one of his hands is on Castiel’s arm. ‘I don’t want...to fuck you up. I mean, I’d rather you didn’t fuck _me_ up, either but...’

‘I do not understand, Dean.’

Dean sighs and Castiel sees him squeeze his eyes shut again. It seems to ease his thinking slightly. ‘I don’t want us to...do...whatever we do in the next ten minutes and...and then you disappear tomorrow morning.’ He opens his eyes again and almost glares at Castiel, almost defiant. ‘Okay? That work for you?’

Castiel shakes his head. ‘I am not going to disappear tomorrow morning, Dean. My orders--’

Dean hisses out a breath between his teeth and shakes his head once, firmly. _‘Not_ what I mean.’

Castiel stops and considers. Once he thinks about it, it seems obvious. Of course that would not be what Dean meant; he knows Castiel’s orders as well as the angel does himself.

But if that is not what Dean has in mind, then what--?

Castiel looks up at Dean, tries to read his face in the dim reflection of the streetlight some yards away. The frown lines are heavy on the younger man’s forehead, his eyes dark, his mouth tight.

Castiel tries to remember the last time he saw Dean with someone he cared about other than Sam.

 _Years._

And if that is the case -- if his memory is not misleading him -- then Dean, in his usual way, has been loading his words all evening. Each utterance has carried at least two meanings and possibly more than that and Castiel had nearly _missed_ it.

Dean’s scowl darkens and he starts to move back from Castiel, but the angel catches his wrist before he can get more than a few inches away.

‘Dean.’

‘’m the only one here, Cas.’ Dean does not move back.

Castiel pulls the younger man back gently, putting his other hand on Dean’s hip. ‘I thought you knew I did not stay with you because of Heaven.’

‘That’s what you _say_ all the time.’ Dean is tight, muscles drawn tense, and Castiel could curse himself for missing something so obvious.

‘That is what I _have_ to say, Dean.’ Castiel hesitates, amends, ‘That is all I _know_ to say.’ He hesitates again, then reaches up slowly and presses a fingertip to Dean’s lower lip, feeling Dean’s inhalation against his skin. ‘It is not as if I could explain...other reasons to Zachariah.’

‘Other reasons, huh?’ Dean reaches up and catches Castiel’s hand.

Castiel nods. ‘I would not leave by choice.’

Dean is silent for a minute, then says slowly, ‘’Cause I don’t want you thinkin’ this is the best I can do...’ He moves forward and, carefully, almost too carefully for Castiel’s taste, brushes his lips against Castiel’s. ‘I mean...I haven’t had any practice at this or anything...’ he mutters against Castiel’s mouth, ‘I don’t wanna do somethin’ wrong...’r hurt you...’

‘I am an angel of God, Dean,’ Castiel says softly, enjoying the warm brush of Dean’s lower lip against his own as he speaks. ‘There is very little you could do that would hurt me.’

Dean’s mouth twitches into a smile. ‘’Kay, then maybe I don’t want _you_ to do somethin’ wrong and hurt _me_...’

‘I will not -- I never would,’ Castiel promises soberly, his hand tightening around Dean’s arm.

‘Well, then...’ Dean leans forward, knees brushing against Castiel’s legs, one of his hands finding the side of Castiel’s throat, tracing a warm line up into his hair at the base of his neck. ‘...nothin’ to stop me doin’ this now is there?’ He covers Castiel’s mouth with his own before the angel can speak.

Whatever Castiel had been planning to say is rapidly lost in the press of Dean’s lips and the sudden shockingly hot pressure of his tongue against the corner of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel gasps, his mouth opens, and Dean’s tongue is tracing the inside of his lips, a sensation Castiel has never considered.

Tentatively, not sure if this is what Dean has in mind or not, he touches the tip of his tongue to Dean’s lower lip, tasting the faint chemical sweetness of chapstick and an even fainter flavor of mint.

He feels, rather than hears, Dean’s sharp inhalation and takes this as an encouraging sign. He presses further, exploring the roughness of Dean’s tongue with his own, the sharp pleasure that burns through his chest when he sucks gingerly on Dean’s lower lip.

‘Jesus... _Christ_...’ Dean breaks away, leaning his forehead against Castiel’s, breathing harsh in the still night air.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ Castiel hears his own breathing loud in his ears.

‘Uh...no...no...definitely not...’ Dean moves as if to press himself against Castiel, but stops at the last minute, only pressing his hands against Castiel’s arms.

‘Good.’ Castiel ducks forward, catching Dean’s chin in one hand and going back to his careful exploration of Dean’s mouth.

The taste of mint is stronger in the inside of Dean’s mouth, his teeth a strange smoothness against the tip of Castiel’s tongue. He can feel Dean’s hands stroking over his arms, pushing up under the tuxedo jacket and finding the line between shirt and vest.

‘Goddamn it...’ Dean pulls back again, gasping, and leaning past Castiel to unlock the door of the car. ‘Get in... get _in_ the damned car...’

Castiel stays where he is, pulse pounding in his throat, unable to feel anything but disappointment that Dean wishes to be elsewhere. ‘But, Dean, Sam is in the motel room -- we--’

‘Who said anything about the fucking motel?’ Dean grabs Castiel’s shoulder and urges him into the backseat of the Impala.

The angel scrambles past the front seat and tries, in the dark, to make room for Dean as best he can. He feels the car rock as Dean ducks in beside him and slams the door.

For a second or two, they sit in a slightly strained silence, the familiar stuffiness of the car closing around them. Castiel feels the same strange ambiguity he did upon leaving the museum.

‘Cas...’ Dean slides towards him along the slick leather seat until their thighs touch, but says nothing else.

‘Dean.’ Tentatively, Castiel puts a hand on Dean’s thigh, feeling the smoothness of the new trousers under his palm. ‘Did you buy these as well?’

‘What?’

‘The trousers.’

‘Oh. Oh, yeah...’ Dean snorts. ‘Bought the whole damned thing this afternoon.’

‘They suit you.’ Castiel leans forward, wanting to find Dean’s mouth again, but hesitates. ‘You look...they make you look...good.’

‘Wow. Don’t go overboard there, Cas. Gonna overwhelm me with compliments.’ Dean’s voice is dry.

‘You would have looked as good in your oldest t-shirt and jeans,’ Castiel says quietly, reaching out in the dimness to find Dean’s silk-covered arm. ‘You would have looked as good in that red shirt with the ripped sleeve. You would have looked as good in the towels from the motel room.’

Castiel feels Dean’s breath speed up, but his voice is a quiet tease: ‘You been picturin’ me in nothin’ but towels, Cas?’

Castiel closes his eyes, remembers seeing Dean pad silently into the bathroom one morning, Dean thinking him asleep in the corner of the room. The rush of water in the small room had been a distraction, enough to keep him from falling back into his thoughts -- and then Dean’s return to the room in a cloud of soap-scented steam, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips-- ‘Yes.’

‘Who knew angels had dirty minds...’ Dean breathes and leans forward. Castiel braces himself for Dean’s mouth on his but instead-- ‘Dean!’

Dean chuckles against Castiel’s throat. ‘Ticklish, Cas?’

‘N--n-no, but I...I...’ Castiel hears himself stammering but cannot make the words come out as they should with Dean’s mouth as a warm, wet distraction on his throat. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes, feeling Dean press against his side.

Castiel fumbles and finds Dean’s arm again, sliding his palm against the slickness of the silk. He slips his fingers along the line of muscle to Dean’s shoulder, tracing the demarcation between bicep and tricep, then finds what he is looking for: the space between Dean’s collar and throat.

‘Jesus!’

Castiel hears the exclamation distantly as he presses his mouth against the hollow of Dean’s collarbone, licking his way up to the warm skin below Dean’s ear.

‘Christ...Cas...’ Dean arches up against him and Castiel gasps, feeling the sudden pressure of Dean’s body against his from knee to shoulder. Dean’s hand scrabbles at his shoulder and pushes at his jacket. ‘Get this...fucking thing off...’

The next few minutes are rather confused, with Dean swearing fluently about the very clothing he had been insistent Castiel wear: ‘...knew it’d look fuckin’ hot but...that thing with the tie: you did that to drive me crazy, right?....’

Dean’s fingers fumble at the buttons of the vest and Castiel cautions him: ‘Dean, you said this had to be returned...’

‘Oh, fuck it -- _fuck_ it, Cas, I want it _off_ you...’

Buttons pop and the vest is gone -- to where, Castiel is not sure.

Possibly the same place he would like Dean’s shirt to go.

Still -- there is something distinctly attractive about Dean as he is with the jacket gone, shirt unbuttoned, half-sprawling over the seat, the cold light from the streetlamp silvering his hair.

Castiel leans forward, half-kneeling on the seat, draping himself over Dean and resuming his slow survey of Dean’s collarbone. Dean groans, dropping his head back against the seat and his hands find Castiel’s shoulders, clenching against his shoulderblades.

The light tickle of hair against his lips and nose takes a little getting used to but Castiel finds the slight annoyance more than repaid by the small gutteral noises Dean is making in the back of his throat.

There is also the delightful _variety_ of flavors Dean’s skin presents. He never would have thought there would be such a difference between the taste at the base of Dean’s throat and the taste over the center of his breastbone.

Castiel runs his hands over Dean’s shoulders, feeling silk-warmed skin, the slight roughness of the scatter of chest hair, and--

‘Cas!’ Dean arches up against his hands and Castiel cocks his head, presses his fingers over the small nubs again. ‘Fuck!’

Castiel wants to groan, wants to drop his head and rub against Dean until the scent of his body transfers itself, until all he can feel is the heat of Dean’s skin against his own.

‘Cas...’ Dean’s voice is rough, only just audible, and Castiel raises his head and sees Dean looking down at him, eyes gleaming in the dim light. Dean’s fingers release against his shoulders and rub up over the back of his neck and through his hair.

Castiel closes his eyes and lets his cheek rest against Dean’s belly. He shifts slightly, easing his hips into a more comfortable position, and hears Dean’s gasp at the same time as he chokes back his own.

He shifts again, presses himself against the inside of Dean’s thigh, and feels his fingers clench against Dean’s ribs. The warm rush of sensation over his nerves and the steady glow of pleasure converts for a brief moment into a burn, a clench in his gut that he wants, desperately wants, to continue. And the tighter he presses himself to Dean, the longer the feeling seems to last.

‘Jesus...Cas...please...’ Dean’s voice is broken, the words only barely comprehensible and Castiel lifts his head, wanting to know if he can read what is happening in Dean’s face.

Dean has shifted position just enough to lose his face and shoulders in shadow. When Castiel shifts position, slipping up Dean’s body, he feels something against his ribs and lifts himself back, ignoring the complaints from the rest of his body which wants to remain plastered to Dean.

Dean’s trousers no longer fit as smoothly as they had originally and Castiel presses the palm of his hand against the bulge distorting the cloth. Dean groans and arches up again, digging his fingers into Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel hesitates.

The sound does not sound like pain and Dean is not trying to pull away from him, so... He leans forward, carefully undoing the button fastening on the trousers and pulling down the zipper. Dean’s breathing is turning rough, almost panting, and Castiel looks up again. ‘Dean?’

‘’m fine...’m fine...’

Castiel nods and turns back to the project of easing the trousers past Dean’s hips. For the first moment or two, this distracts him sufficiently that he fails to take in the fact that Dean is suddenly mostly naked. Then he realises what his hands have been stroking is not cloth, but warm, soft, slightly hairy, unclothed skin. ‘Dean...’

‘God, I hope so...’ Dean’s voice is throaty, but no longer quite so rough-sounding and Castiel looks up to see Dean propped on one elbow, looking down at him.

‘You did not...you are not...’ Castiel gestures helplessly, unable to think past the dryness in his throat and the sudden constriction between his own thighs which aches for pressure.

‘Nope.’ Dean grins, but his eyes are watchful. ‘Disappointed?’

Castiel looks back down and fails to find words.

Dean’s body is _beautiful._

He had known this before -- or, rather, guessed it from brief glimpses and watching Dean move through the world. But this -- stretched out before him, even in the faint, cold light from a distant streetlamp, is more than he had guessed at.

He drops his head, unable to resist the temptation. There is a thick nest of hair between Dean’s legs and it nearly makes Castiel sneeze. As he tests the flavors of Dean’s lower belly, though, he is insistently aware of the nudge against his chest and, as he moves lower, his chin.

Dean is still propped on his elbow, still watching him, although Castiel can see out of the corner of his eye that Dean’s eyes keep dropping closed and, once or twice, his head nearly drops back as Castiel half-accidentally teases the tip of his cock with the underside of his own chin.

‘Cas...y’don’t...I mean...if y’don’t...’ Dean coughs, tries again. ‘If y’don’t want...’

Castiel considers the possibilities of Dean’s words for a minute, then decides to ignore them, instead drawing back to consider the arch and angle of Dean’s cock. The shadow is darker here and he cannot see all the detail he would like, but he can smell a thick, musky scent and see a faint gleam of moisture, as if Dean’s body is readier than he will admit.

Curious, Castiel leans forward and licks at the gleam, eliciting a harsh, quickly stifled shout from Dean and gaining himself a slightly bitter mouthful. He tests the flavor thoughtfully, licking his lips carefully, then drops his head and licks again, long strokes this time from base to tip, gathering the moisture and slicking it over the soft skin.

Dean groans, a sound Castiel can almost _feel_ reverberating through his hips and into Castiel’s mouth, and drops back on the seat.

Castiel shifts position slightly to accommodate Dean’s change, dropping one knee down onto the floor of the car. Involuntarily, he presses his own groin against Dean’s thigh, trying to ease the throbbing ache between his legs.

‘Christ...Cas...you...so hard...fuck...can feel you...’ The words are broken, but Castiel thinks he can follow the thought.

He wants to break away, wants to tell Dean of the fantastic flavor of his skin, the bitter taste on Castiel’s tongue, the scent filling his nose -- but instead, he eases his hands under Dean’s hips and kisses his way down Dean’s cock, stroking the soft space between Dean’s legs with his tongue, and licking his way back to the swollen, leaking tip.

‘Fuck...fuck fuck fuck...’ Dean is almost chanting, his body making tiny thrusting movements that Castiel finds himself imitating without meaning to, pressing himself against Dean’s leg. ‘Cas...Cas...I...I can’t...oh, _fuck_...’

Castiel feels Dean’s body suddenly draw tight and swallows Dean’s cock as best he can, closing his eyes and feeling the pulse against the back of his throat and the sudden swell of bitter salt.

‘Cas...Cas...’ Dean’s fumbling hands find his head, stroking through his hair, and Castiel pulls back, swallows, and moans, thrusting his hips against Dean’s thigh. ‘Let me...here...’ Dean’s hand pushes down between them and cups the length of Castiel’s cock through his trousers, teasing over the tip even through a layer of cloth, and Castiel groans, shoving down against Dean’s fingers and feeling the pulse of his own body in a sudden hot spurt.

Castiel collapses against Dean, eyes closed, breathing harsh in his own ears, feeling the tingle of nerves he had not realised he had.

‘Y’okay there, Cas?’ Dean leaves his hand where it is, stroking a last shudder from Castiel.

‘I am...Dean...’ Castiel raises his head and, with a little effort, shifts position, easing himself up Dean’s body. He drops his head on Dean’s breast, closing his eyes again.

A few moments of silence pass.

‘Dean.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I will not stay with you because of this either.’

Dean is silent for a minute and, when he speaks, his voice is slightly strained, ‘Okay.’

Castiel can feel the tension in Dean’s muscles -- so unlike the tension of a few minutes before -- and realises how what he said had been misunderstood. ‘Dean.’

‘Still here, Cas.’

‘I will stay with you because I wish to.’ Castiel pauses and adds, ‘If _you_ wish me to.’

Dean is silent for another long moment and Castiel begins to feel cold, the humidity in the car condensing on his skin and making him feel damp and slightly miserable.

‘’Course I do.’ Dean’s arms come tight around his shoulders, holding him in place. ‘Y’idiot.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Minerva Holmes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/minerva_holmes) for the title!


End file.
